A Sherlockian Carol
by Idiot-The-Great
Summary: Slight AU. Inspired by Disney's 'A Christmas Carol' Sherlock owns a successful detective agency, and John is his ever faithful assistant. This Christmas season, Sherlock will be visited by three unlikely guides that will lead him through his life - past, present, and future- to show him not only what he has missed, but also what he could still lose. Eventual JohnLock
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So here's the deal. I haven't written in a LONG time, so bear with me. I know this has probably been done before, but I just got this idea while watching Disney's 'A Christmas Carol' and could not leave it alone! This is the first Sherlock fic I've written, though I've read quite a bit. Just a warning, this is unbeta'd and I did all the Brit-picking I could, but if you find any errors, please let me know! **

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock and it's characters or A Christmas Carol**

* * *

It was Christmas Eve, and John Watson could not be more stressed.

Shopping had to be done for the family dinner, and as he was the lone breadwinner, it would all be done by himself. Gifts still needed to be purchased, and John still had no idea what to get his sister or mother - not to mention his friends. His flat was in utter disarray, and he just knew that Harry would have something to say about it if he failed to tidy up.

The most daunting task, however, was his job. In most circumstances, John's job would be described as stable. Respectable. _Easy _even.

These were not normal circumstances. Not with Sherlock Holmes as his boss.

His formal title would be an assistant, or a secretary, perhaps. He manages Sherlock's schedule, records messages left, and answers phones. All of the things Sherlock deem to be below him.

John supposed he was special, in a way. Not to Sherlock, of course, never to Sherlock, but just in the respect of his resilience. Over the years, Sherlock had several assistants, all of which quit after the first week.

John had stayed; he dealt with the insults, the impossible demands, and the frankly pathetic wages. He sometimes wondered why he stayed with Sherlock, but he always dismissed the thoughts and the warm feelings it brought. He _really_ didn't want to linger on the last part.

It had been over a year since his first day, and his job had transformed a bit. Now he held several titles.

Babysitter.

Housekeeper.

Doctor.

Anything and everything.

Locked out of his flat because he melted his keys in an experiment? Call John.

Waking up in an alley after a confrontation with suspects? Call John.

Need milk? Call John.

He was surprised the man managed to dress himself properly half the time. With his sporadic naps and even more sporadic meals, Sherlock needed constant reminding to perform even the simplest of tasks.

Then there were the cases.

Oh, the _cases._

Any case John brought to Sherlock to look over must be worth his while. Or as Sherlock put it, "something not dreadfully boring and obvious - even your little brain should be capable of that."

And so, John trudged through the snow towards the small building, ready for a long day, pulling his tattered jacket tighter against the biting wind. A layer of white covered the block letters of "HOLMES DETECTIVE AGENCY" on the front of the building. A line of anxious customers had already formed outside the locked doors.

Sherlock's reputation preceded him. He was the best, and everyone knew it. Everyone also knew how selective he was. And his bitter personality.

Even so, many of Sherlock's possible clients had a spark of hope in their eyes as John unlocked the front door and allowed them inside.

The waiting room was clean and modern. Black plush chairs were pushed against sparkling white walls. A glass table ran along the middle of the room, and fake plants stood in the corners.

John ushered his patrons into the chairs.

He knew Sherlock could tell him at a glance who would be worth his time, just by the way they sat down in their chair, how they styled their hair that morning, or the kind of coffee they were drinking.

John, however, had no such skill, and began his lengthy interviewing process.

John cleared his throat to quiet the room, "if you could all sign in with your name and telephone number on this clipboard, please. I'll call you when I'm ready."

He passed the clipboard to a middle aged woman in a chair to his right, and exited the room.

John poked his head into Sherlock's office, the stacks of paperwork and books making the room seem smaller. Upon seeing the detective dozing in his chair, head resting on his folded arms on the desk, John quirked a soft smile. His heart jumped up into his throat, and John shook his head, knocking softly.

Sherlock bolted upright in his chair and fixed John with a piercing glare.

"What?"

John quirked an eyebrow and attempted to set his expression into something neutral.

"Just letting you know that I opened up the doors. Everyone's signing in right now. "

"Several people, I assume," he grumbled, standing and smoothing his suit jacket.

John nodded.

"Tea?" John asked, already heading towards the electric kettle in the corner of the office.

Sherlock grumbled in approval, his eyes flitting across an open file on his desk.

John came over minutes later with a steaming cup of tea, wordlessly setting it on the edge of the desk and leaving the room.

He moved to his own, small office across the hall. It was tidy and organized, with two bins on top of his desk clearly marked "Yes" and "Dull," the latter being the fuller of the two.

Grabbing a notebook and a cup of tea, John returned to the sitting room and collected the clipboard.

"Ah, Mrs. Miriam Reynolds, please? "

The middle aged woman perked up. John smiled and motioned for her to follow.

He led her down a narrow hallway and into a plain room. Two silver chairs and a metal table sat in the middle of the room, a single light hanging over the table. Personally, John felt this whole "interrogation room" was a bit dramatic, but there was no arguing with Sherlock's design.

Miriam sat down and John sat opposite her, placing his tea and notebook on the table with a pleasant smile.

"Alright Mrs. Reynolds, what do you have for us today?"

She sat up straight in her chair and squared her shoulders.

"Well, you see dear, it all started when my husband started to stay out later than he usually did…"

John hoped his face didn't display the dismay he already felt.

Just another case that would ultimately end up in the dull pile. He attempted to look intrigued as he tuned out Miriam's recount of her husband's dastardly deeds, jotting a few things down where it seemed appropriate.

"…So it would be ever so helpful if Mr. Holmes could tell me what, exactly, he is up to!" She finished with a flourish, and John nodded thoughtfully.

"Oh. Yes. I'll, uh, pass that on to Mr. Holmes right away, Mrs. Reynolds."

He stood and shook her hand with a rehearsed smile, and she beamed.

"Oh, thank you dear!"

John escorted the woman back to the sitting room.

"Next please?"

And so the day went, John interviewing case after case, looking for anything Sherlock might even consider looking into. So far, he was hitting dead ends; several suspicious husbands, lost dogs, and a mildly amusing case of a sock thief.

Many handshakes and false promises later, John reached the final customer.

The woman was young, with pale, delicate features and long blond hair. She wore a light jacket over a simple pink dress, and smiled up at John when he called her name.

"Miss Mary Morstan?"

She stood and followed John into the room, and John figured that, if not for the case, at least he could keep her number for himself. She was quite pretty, after all. He was allowed to see women if he wanted to, he told himself, though the thought made his stomach lurch.

He gave her a genuine smile before delving right into it – "Alright, Mary. What is it you'd like Mr. Holmes' help with?"

Mary looked down at where her hands were clasped in her lap and bit her lip.

"It's a bit of a long story," she murmured, "but it is very important to me and my family."

John nodded, motioning for her to continue.

Taking a deep breath, Mary seemed to brace herself for the tale.

"My father died recently, an accident at work, and he left me his inheritance. As I understand, it's quite a large sum of money – something I am in desperate need of right now. Especially during this holiday season, I'm sure you understand."

John mumbled his agreement. Oh, he certainly did understand.

"The problem is," she continued with frustration, "the money is not there. There are no traces of the money left in his account or mine. I went to the bank for answers, but they had no idea! They said my father withdrew the money days before his death, but I can't help but feel that it doesn't make any sense! My father was very good with his money, and he rarely ever touched that savings account, so to withdraw it all in one day?"

Mary trailed off, looking at John with a silent plea.

"If I don't find this money," she whispered, "I don't know how my family will make it through to the new year."

John's breath hitched as Mary's glassy eyes fixed on his. He reached across the table and grasped her hand. It was cold and delicate in his palm.

"I promise you that I will bring this right to Mr. Holmes. You will get your money back, Miss Morstan."

Mary's face lit up, and she grasped John's hand in both of hers, standing to shake his hand.

"Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Watson!"

John chuckled and felt himself flush.

"Please, it's John. And it's my pleasure. I'll call you as soon as I can! Er. About the case. Obviously."

His cheeks tinted pink, and Mary giggled.

"Yes, of course, John. Call me anytime."

She left the room with a wink, and John felt himself grinning. Perhaps this day wasn't a total bust.

As promised, John headed to Sherlock's office and knocked once before entering. Sherlock sat atop his desk, violin poised to play, though the bow was absent. His gaze flicked over to John, then back to the window.

"No," was all Sherlock said before plucking out random, dissonant cords.

John blinked, "No… what?"

Sherlock scoffed, setting his instrument down and whipping around to face John.

"Don't be stupid, John. No, I will not take the case you were about to propose to me. I refuse to be treated as a party trick to win you a date."

John squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Okay, whatever, but please hear me out, Sherlock. This could actually be interesting! And besides, she really needs our help! Her family-"

"Ah. Sentiment. Of course, it would be a matter of sentiment with you, John. Have I not already told you that _sentiment_ does not factor into whether or not I take a case?"

John rolled his eyes, "Yes, but-"

"Like I already said," Sherlock fixed John with a cold stare, "I refuse."

Sherlock picked up his violin, with the bow this time, and played screeching chords until John finally shook his head and sighed.

"You really don't care about anyone, do you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept playing.

"Sociopath, John," he shouted over the noise.

John hung his head and let out a slow breath, "You know, one day this will come back to haunt you. The compassion you lack for other people will be reflected right back at you, and you will have no one, Sherlock. No one."

Sherlock snorted and peered over his shoulder, "I don't need anyone, John."

John felt his heart clench, and he turned away before Sherlock could see his expression.

"It's Christmas tomorrow. Don't expect me to come in," John muttered, "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed as John left his office, and called after him, "Bright and early the day after, John. Don't be late!"

John said nothing as he marched out the front doors, hunching his shoulders against the sudden chill.

A heavy weight seemed to sink to the bottom of John's stomach, and he berated himself for his worrying this morning. It hardly compared to the stress of being in love with your heartless boss.

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**Please, please, please review! I want to know what you all think! There's much more to come. (:**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello all. I'm so glad that I already got a of couple reviews! Seriously made my day, so thank you so much! Please, I urge you to review, even if you're only mildly interested, or just have some criticism, I'd love to know! Still unbeta'd and only my brit-picking.  
**

**Disclaimer: Don't own.  
**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes knew he was a cynical man. He knew he was rude and cruel and cold. He knew he was strange.

He also knew he was a freak, according the Yarders that hired him on occasion.

But heartless he was not – though that was a carefully guarded secret. Emotions got in the way; they were messy, unpredictable and useless. They disrupted the work.

Sherlock much preferred science. Science was constant. He could _control_ his experiments, he _understood_ them. The act of exploring and testing the physical world was always intriguing to Sherlock, and more often than not, helped him on cases.

He had come to this conclusion long ago, and for years, he banished all thoughts of fickle emotions as soon as they arose.

Which is why he was understandably frustrated when he began to fall for John Watson.

John Watson was an ordinary man who owned too many ugly jumpers and thought tea was the solution for everything. John was stubborn. He always forced Sherlock to eat and sleep, even after Sherlock told him _it was all transport._

John never failed to answer Sherlock's calls, and did as asked, no matter how ridiculous. John succumbed to his every whim, at Sherlock's beck and call, wrapped around his finger. John worried for him, watched with sad eyes as Sherlock left for cases, tried to convince him he had a shred of humanity. He was so _sickeningly loyal_-

Yet Sherlock was not annoyed.

John stayed.

John was kind, witty, and even reasonably intelligent. No matter what insult Sherlock threw at him, he took it in stride with a smile and a cuppa.

Sherlock saw bags under John's eyes, and the slump of his shoulders. He knew there was a burden that John carried with him all the time, yet he never treated Sherlock with contempt. He carried on like a true Englishman, never saying a word about it, and never complaining.

John Watson was amazing.

Sherlock saw the potential between them. How could he not? He was sure John had seen it too, if his dilated pupils and quickened breath were anything to go by. He knew there was _something_ – John would not turn him away if reached out to him, to hold him, to kiss him, to love hi-

But Sherlock did not.

He was _falling_ for John Watson, he had not _fallen._

Relationships took time and effort, things better dedicated to the work. John would want attention and warmth, something Sherlock would not give, so Sherlock revealed nothing.

Sentiment – a waste of time.

He was content with how things were, so why change it?

Sherlock left the building at nightfall, trudging down the sidewalk alone towards his flat. His long coat billowed in the crisp breeze, and flurries floated down to land on buildings and parked cars.

The streets were empty, only his footsteps permeated the eerie silence. Suddenly, streetlights flickered once, twice, and then went out.

Sherlock's gait faltered, but he caught himself and continued at a quicker pace. It was bloody cold.

Sherlock felt a presence behind him, tailing him, so he forced his head down and plowed on. He took a sharp turn into an alleyway, prepared to run, but stopped dead in his tracks.

An impossible man stood before him: tall, slim and regal in a tattered suit, with sharp features and inky hair streaked with silver. Chains wound around the man's body, heavy weights attached to the ends, pulling his usual impeccable posture to a hunch.

Sherlock stumbled back and fell to the cold ground, the pavement stinging his hands.

No. No no no no no.

This man was dead.

Sherlock clenched his eyes closed and opened them. The man remained where he was.

"F-Father?" Sherlock whispered, not daring to look away.

The elder Holmes dragged himself closer, the chains creaking and weights clanking and scraping against the frozen ground.

"Obvious, Sherlock. You always were slow, weren't you, boy?"

Sherlock gaped, shaking his head. This wasn't possible. Sherlock went to the funeral, he saw him lying _dead, _he-

Mr. Holmes loomed in close to Sherlock's face, his frown lines enhanced by the pale, unearthly glow of his skin.

"Yes, I am dead, Sherlock. I've only come to pass along a message," he sneered. Sherlock felt a cold tingling where breath should have brushed his face.

"M-message?" Sherlock managed to mumble, trying to slide away.

Mr. Holmes' cool glare pinned him in place. Sherlock looked on with wide eyes.

The elder Holmes tsked, looking Sherlock up and down. A twisted smirk overtook the man's face.

"You've become just like me, Sherlock," he whispered, the smirk stretching unnaturally across his face.

Sherlock's stare hardened, "No, never," he snapped.

Mr. Holmes laughed, loud guffaws that tumbled from smirking lips. It was bitter like death.

"Oh yes, you have. You don't care for anyone but yourself. You are selfish and deceitful, and everybody hates you," he growled the last three words.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but his father's leering face was suddenly inches away, the smirk splitting his face in half, eyes gleaming with malice.

"You will carry your burdens forever, just as I do, Sherlock. You can never right your wrongs, and they will _haunt you_," Mr. Holmes croaked, the skin on his face decaying, pulling away from the bone. Icy eyes bulged in their sockets.

Sherlock was gasping for breath, his hands scrambling for something to grab as he tried pulling himself away from this nightmare.

"Three visitors will come, Sherlock! The last at the stroke of midnight! They will show you what you have become! You will see!" Mr. Holmes shrieked, shrill laughter consuming him, the chains pulling him to the ground. He struggled forward, his bony hand reaching out towards Sherlock.

Sherlock stumbled to his feet and ran, his breath coming in short bursts, and his heart pounding in his ears.

The sound of his father's laughter followed him as he flew down the sidewalks, pushing pedestrians out of the way. Couldn't they _hear_ that? That vicious laughter?

It followed him all the way to Baker Street, where he threw himself inside and locked the door behind him. His back landed against the door with a thud, and he leaned his head to rest on the cool wood, his eyes firmly shut. Only when his breathing slowed did he stand and continue up the stairs to his empty flat.

Sherlock locked that door as well and wound his fingers into his hair, pulling slightly. This wasn't happening. But he had _seen_ it with his own eyes! However improbable… but three visitors?

Bells chimed the late hour. Before Sherlock could ponder what had happened, someone let out a small cough from the kitchen.

Sherlock spun around.

A petite, mousy woman in a ratty cardigan and grey trousers stood in the entrance. She was biting her lip and twirling her dull brown hair with her fingers. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes.

Sherlock balked, his tongue feeling like chalk as he whispered, "Molly?"

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**And so, you are introduced to the "ghost" of the past. Intrigued? Please review! Comments? Review! Criticism? Guess what... review!  
Thanks for reading!  
~Idiot-The-Great**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I've updated so quickly... I'm amazed at myself. Anyways, thanks again for the follows and reviews. It really means a lot to me! Please, any feedback is good feedback! Again, this is unbeta'd and only Brit-picked by me, so beware.**

**Warnings: Possibly sensitive material.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own.  
**

* * *

Moonlight flooded the room through slotted blinds, highlighting the dust in the air. The light seemed to pass right through Molly, and she left no shadow.

Molly. Right.

Sherlock's mind immediately listed off the facts.

First assistant.

Worked at Bart's now.

Obviously infatuated with him.

Socially awkward, shy.

Emotional.

Left in tears.

Why was she here? Why now?

Sherlock disrupted the eerie stillness of the room, surging forward to grasp at Molly's sleeve. He felt faint warmth, but no solid figure. Odd.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. She _appeared _be here, but was _not._ Only one logical solution, then.

"I'm dreaming," he stated, regarding her with a perfunctory smirk.

Molly looked down and brushed her hair behind her ear.

"Yes and no," she answered, glancing at him and away again.

"What do you mean _yes and no?!_"

Sherlock crossed his arms, grey eyes stormy.

Molly flinched at looked up at him with wide eyes, "Oh, please don't be angry, Sherlock! I'm just here to… to show you something. Your Christmas Past."

"My Christmas Past?"

Molly straightened up, and her eyes glinted with determination. She studied him for a moment and nodded.

"Yes."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Go away, Molly. I don't have time for this – this idiocy. For you. Haven't we already covered this? Or did I not make myself clear when I said you were a _sniveling_, _pathetic excuse for a human being?_"

Molly remained indifferent. Then she smiled softly.

"You've not convinced me to leave, Sherlock," she said, and she stepped in close to him, "In fact, you've convinced me that what I have to show you is all the more important."

The false heat of her hand gripped his wrist suddenly, and Sherlock found himself flying down the streets of London, lights on shops blurring past, car horns distorting as the whipped by, soaring faster and faster until – stop.

Sherlock stood on the sidewalk outside a large, wrought-iron gate with marble posts and walls. A large golden plate hung on the post, engraved with "Hendrick's Boys' Academy." A traditional building stood on the other side, bell towers touching the clouds.

Sherlock reached out to touch the marble, the colour nearly the same as his skin. His hand passed straight through.

"We're merely observing, Sherlock. We cannot interact with our surroundings."

Molly's voice next to him startled Sherlock, and he looked sharply at her.

"My old school. Why?"

She smiled in response to his glare.

"Perhaps you should see for yourself."

Sherlock turned back to the gate with a grunt and walked straight through it. A group of young boys burst from the building, talking and chuckling.

"Have a good holiday, Sebastian!"

"You too, Harry! See you, Jacob! Merry Christmas!"

"Yeah, Merry Christmas, mate!"

Sherlock blinked, taking in each young face.

"I know them; they were my frie- my classmates. I…"

Sherlock trailed off, looking back at the building with a frown.

Molly touched his wrist, and they were inside.

It was an auditorium - the stage and seats all antique wood. Lights highlighted the stage and the young boy slumped on the edge, a violin resting beneath his chin, bow poised to play.

A sorrowful song filled the air, haunting melodies and minor chords weaving and flowing, and Sherlock's heart clenched. He remembered how that felt. How it felt to be so utterly alone and unwanted.

Sherlock found he couldn't look directly at Molly, staring instead at her worn loafers.

"Why are you showing me this, Molly?" He whispered slowly.

She smiled at the boy, then the same man in front of her.

"Because you are human, Sherlock Holmes."

Her hand was at his wrist again, and Sherlock felt his stomach lurch as they tore through London at an alarming speed. He heard sirens screaming, ambulance horns blaring, bright blue lights flashing and burning his retinas. He saw those vehicles pulling into a driveway – his family home? – but only for a second. They kept speeding along, the sirens a phantom noise, pounding inside his skull.

Then it stopped.

They were inside a clean, bustling hallway. Nurses in scrubs walked the hallways, some with carts, others with clipboards, all moving with a sense of purpose.

Bile burned the back of Sherlock's throat. Oh _god_ not here.

Molly's warm eyes met his frantic stare, and she led him forward to a small, sterile room.

A younger, twenty year old, version of himself sat curled up in a lounge chair, his body feeble and shaking. His inky curls hung limply against his gaunt face, deep bags stained under his eyes.

He stared at his brother perched opposite him with barely concealed desperation.

"Mycroft, I… I hate this. Please…" Sherlock all but whimpered.

Mycroft frowned and settled a hand on his bony shoulder.

"I know, Sherlock, but it's for the best."

Sherlock snorted and brushed Mycroft's hand away, pulling his knees to his chest.

"Best for Father, maybe. He just wanted to get rid of his pathetic, disappointment of a son."

Mycroft regarded him sternly, "that's not true, Sherlock. We all want you to get better. You are _better than this_, and you know it!"

Sherlock stood and loomed over his brother.

"_Am_ I, Mycroft?! It would appear not, because I'm _here._ Don't you see?!" Sherlock latched onto Mycroft's shoulders and shook him, "the drugs… they make it stop. They make my mind stop, my thinking stop! I'm so tired… so tired of thinking so much! I need… I can't…"

Sherlock fell to knees in front of his brother and cried.

Here, Sherlock tried to look away from the pitiful memory of himself, but Molly's stern face made him turn back.

Mycroft had slid to the floor next to his brother and held him as he shook and jerked, hands resting at his back and in his hair, rubbing soothing circles.

"It'll be okay, Sherlock," he whispered, "Shh, I'm here. I'll always be here, Sherlock. Please, just… just don't give in."

Sherlock looked away from the scene and back to Molly.

"Please," he croaked, "take me away from here."

Molly's eyes were sad, brimming with tears, but she smiled, nodded, and grasped his wrist.

They moved through London again, but Sherlock was almost in a trance. Warmth permeated the air, and Sherlock looked to his surroundings to see sunlight and the people of London out and about. There was something comforting about the atmosphere, but Sherlock couldn't put his finger on it. It was only when they stopped outside a familiar building that Sherlock realized what that feeling was.

They strode into his building, past the waiting room to the interviewing room where he and John sat.

_John. _Sherlock's stomach fluttered.

John looked nervous, but only just. He clasped his hands on the table, and his tongue came out to wet his lips every so often, but he still wore a kind smile.

Sherlock studied his résumé, though that was mostly for show. He knew he wanted to hire this man, but wasn't sure why. Still, his eyes darted across the page.

Army, RAMC. Afghanistan.

Shot, invalidated, medical discharge.

College drop-out.

Worked several part-time jobs.

Sherlock met John's steady gaze.

"Looks like you've seen a lot of excitement, done your fair share of paperwork as well."

John wet his lips again, hands shifting on the table.

"Yes. Yes, far too much – enough for a lifetime."

Sherlock smirked.

"Care to do some more?"

"Oh god, yes."

"Could be dangerous."

John smiled.

"Even better."

Sherlock stood abruptly, and John rose to follow, leaving his cane abandoned under the table.

"Come along, John, you'll start today," Sherlock said as he left the room, "I'll show you to your office. There's much to do!"

John followed with a grin, not a hint of a limp.

Sherlock remembered that day oh so well.

There was something intriguing about John right from the start, something mysterious and dangerous beneath those jumpers, and Sherlock couldn't allow a puzzle like that to simply walk away.

Sherlock found himself smiling at the memory. And to think John was still with him after all this time…

With a jolt, Sherlock remembered that morning. Remembered it was important to squash these feelings when they arose.

Sherlock sniffed and turned back to Molly.

"Are we done here?"

Molly blinked dubiously for a moment before nodding slightly.

"Oh. Oh, y-yes, I suppose so."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Stop stuttering, Molly, it's unbecoming. What do you mean, you suppose? What else is there?"

Molly looked down to the ground and began to fidget.

"Nothing! I guess… I just thought that maybe seeing John would, I don't know… He's just so special to you, I-"

"He is not special to me."

Molly's brows furrowed and she peered up at Sherlock.

"But of course he is! You lo-"

"Stop. I don't care about John. I have no time to concern myself with others, which should be obvious to you by now, Molly."

Molly brought herself up to her full height and jabbed a finger at Sherlock's chest.

"You are a liar, Sherlock Holmes! You care about him just as much as he cares about you, but you won't admit it because you're scared! You're a coward, and you need to stop hurting him like this! He's too good for you, Sherlock! He-"

Sherlock pushed her hand away and tangled his fingers in his hair, gritting his teeth.

"Leave me _be_ Molly!"

Sherlock blinked and opened his eyes.

He was back in his flat.

His heart was beating rapidly in his chest and a sudden rush of vertigo hit him.

Sherlock sank into his couch, lighting a cigarette and bringing it to his lips.

The smoke had just drifted up to the ceiling when distant bells chimed the arrival of a new hour.

There was a loud knock at the door, and Sherlock all but groaned.

"Go away," he called, propping his feet up on the table.

The knocking grew louder, and the door flew open.

A familiar figure strolled in, and Sherlock glared over the top of the sofa.

"Lestrade."

The DI smiled in that tormented sort of way, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stared. No shadow.

"Not a case, then, I assume."

"Nope."

Sherlock sighed, his head thumping against the back rest.

"God damn it."

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_**Review. **_**The best has yet to come! **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: God, this chapter took forever! I'm so sorry. Just to clarify a couple things, I imagine John and Sherlock a bit younger than in the show. Sherlock maybe 28 and John 31? I'm not sure how far apart their ages are, but... yeah. Oh, and I know most places aren't open Christmas day, but for the sake of this story, it is so. **

**Warnings: The usual, not brit-picked, unbeta'd. Cussing.  
**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.  
**

* * *

"We'd best be off, ya know, mate."

Lestrade slouched in the doorway, shifting his weight from the balls of his feet to his heels, hands thrust into his coat pockets. He nodded to the door with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock scowled and wrapped his pulled his jacket snug around his torso. "Off on another trip to 'discover myself?' No thank you."

Lestrade cracked a wry grin, chuckling. "If that's what you'd like to call it. But you did just say thank you, so we must have made some progress." Sherlock's expression darkened, and he turned away to stare at skull on the mantle.

"Very funny, Lestrade. Now if you're done laughing at my expense, you can see yourself out."

"Oh come on, Sherlock, it was a joke. Stop being a whiny git and come over here." Lestrade crossed his arms and stared expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock flung himself off the couch and shuffled over.

"Oh, and Sherlock," Lestrade thrust out his arm, "it was pretty funny."

Sherlock frowned and took hold of the proffered arm, and Lestrade laughed. The floor shook beneath their feet, and Sherlock clutched Lestrade's jacket tighter. Lestrade chuckled, and Sherlock merely glared in response.

Floorboards in the far corner of the sitting room fell away, into an unknown abyss. Furniture plummeted through the widening gap, approaching the two men at an alarming rate. Only a small patch of floor remained under them. The mantle crumbled apart and was lost, and pictures fell into the pit from the quaking walls. Windows rattled, and the sound of breaking glass came from the kitchen.

There was a terrible crunching sound as walls snapped and the room lifted away from the rest of the flat. It moved as a unit, surging forward and throwing Sherlock and Lestrade back against the wall. As they turned and swooped through the streets, Sherlock caught fleeting glimpses of daylight beneath his feet; London covered in a blanket of snow. People milled about with family, and children played in snow.

They slowed, and Sherlock inched forward through the dust, peering down into the pit. The scene of a busy street greeted him. Bemused, he turned to Lestrade, who nodded pointedly at the sight below. Sherlock sighed and sat, turning to watch.

Shops lined the road, all claiming the best prices on last-minute holiday gifts. A sea of people bustled in and out of shops, bags in hand. Sherlock easily spotted John gazing through a shop window. He had two plastic bags hanging off his arm; one bag from an electronics store, and the other from a bookstore. A gift for his sister and mother, Sherlock deduced. So who was he shopping for?

John entered the shop, and the scene moved with him. He stood inside the entrance, his forehead resting on his palm and elbow perched on his hip. John was muttering to himself and biting his lip. Sherlock caught the last part of his sentence as he raised his voice slightly.

"…must be insane to try to shop for Sherlock bloody Holmes!"

Sherlock blinked as warmth flooded his body. John was… shopping for him? Butterflies fluttered in his stomach.

John looked up suddenly, spotting something, and made his way over to a small rack of scarves. He smiled, holding up a deep purple scarf. With a nod, John turned to counter to pay.

Sherlock smirked. John had surprisingly good taste despite those horrid jumpers. That scarf would look quite nice with his coat. Sherlock wondered if this meant he had an obligation to get something for John as well…

Lestrade interrupted with a cough. Sherlock turned to see him looking at his watch.

"Places to see, Sherlock!"

And with that, the room started spinning, slowly at first but increasing in speed. Sherlock stumbled to his feet and braced himself against the wall. Colours and lights blurred together in a kaleidoscope of motion, sounds fading in and out. Sherlock's feet slid from underneath him, and the room slowed just as he reached the edge of the pit.

A shabby apartment complex met his eyes, the tired bricks and rusty fire escapes making it look washed out against the London skyline.

"John's flat, I assume?"

Lestrade snorted. "Pretty much all he can afford on the pathetic salary you give him."

They sunk lower until they passed through the roof and into a neat, modest flat. Decorations and furniture were sparse, and Sherlock found it surprising cold compared to the warm man he knew.

A key rattled in the door, and John pushed through, bags in hand. He dispensed them into a room on the right and shut the door. He crossed the sitting room to a door on the opposite side.

"Mum?" John called, knocking softly. A faint voice was heard, and John entered.

A frail woman in her fifties lay on the bed, and her face lit up when she saw John.

"Happy Christmas, John. How are you?" She whispered when he came close. He gave a soft smile and covered her hand with his.

"Happy Christmas. The question is, how are you?" Warm blue eyes gazed into her identical ones, and she laughed quietly.

"Oh John, you need to stop worrying about me. I won't die in the time it takes you to get some shopping done," she said, but her eyes were tired.

John dropped his gaze and pulled his hand back, now trembling.

"Well, Mum, you never know with cancer," he sighed, standing up. He grabbed the wheelchair next to her bed and helped her into it. "Harry will be here soon, so we'll go wait for her in the sitting room, yeah?"

He wheeled her out and next to the sofa, where he sat. Only a few minutes were spent in comfortable silence until Harry walked in. She was short and trim like her brother, with cropped blond hair. A piercing glinted from her eyebrow. Harry carried two large brown bags, an apron tied around her waist and nameplate pinned to her chest.

"Got the food," she said, heading into the kitchen, "Boss let me take some for free! Lots of good stuff."

John followed her, helping her unpack the first bag she set on the counter. As John had feared, she pulled out a bottle of wine from the last bag.

"Harry, I don't think-"

"Shut up, John, it's fine."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, just don't go overboard? Seriously, Harry-"

"I know, okay? Can we not talk about this right now?" Her voice was a harsh whisper, and she glanced over John's shoulder into the sitting room. John heaved a sigh and nodded.

Harry brought the food to the table and John wheeled their mother in. There was a spread of pub food, fried fish as the main course. John grabbed plates and filled the wine glasses. When they were all seated, he raised his glass.

"I propose a toast. To Sherlock Holmes, without whom, this would not be possible."

Sherlock blinked at John's sincerity, and glanced back at Lestrade who looked on grimly.

Harry gave a derisive snort into her wine glass. "That bastard doesn't deserve any honour. He's cruel and selfish, and he treats you like shit. God knows that crazy sod should be locked up."

John glared over his glass. "Really, Harry?"

"Really, John," she huffed, "it's the truth, and we all know it except you. Wonder why."

He gave her a pointed look, and she dropped the subject, instead taking a sip of wine and reaching for some potatoes.

The scene transitioned into later that day, with Mrs. Watson in her room reading the new book John bought her and the siblings sitting in the kitchen, Harry fiddling with her new phone case.

The bottle of wine sat next to her elbow.

Harry glowered when she caught him staring at it.

"You have no right to say anything, John. At least I have a decent job."

John's hands clenched on the table. "I have a decent job. I have a great job, thank you very much."

"Well, for a _great job_, it certainly pays like shit. It's time to face the facts – you need to start looking for other jobs. You – _we – _cannot afford to live with that kind of salary. Mum's medical bills aren't going away."

He sighed and rested his chin in his palm. "I know they're not. There's not much out there for me, Harry. No one wants to hire a gimpy ex-soldier and college dropout, okay?"

Harry fixed him with a stern gaze, her mobile lay forgotten on the table. "No, there's plenty out there for you, you just refuse to look! You need to get your head out of you arse, or perhaps out of Sherlock Holmes' arse and – "

"_Enough_, Harry!"

"No, not enough! You don't get to decide when enough is enough because you've chosen Sherlock Holmes over your own family! Mum needs you, and you're ignoring that so you can wander about London with that psychopath!"

"He's not a psychopath, and we don't wander about London! He wanders about London, and I… well, I – " John seemed to deflate, and Harry smirked.

"Yeah, and you do his paperwork. You're a fucking pushover, John. If you care about Mum, you'll stop being selfish and find a better job."

John's eyebrows shot up and he dropped his hand to the table.

"Me, being selfish? How fucking hypocritical, Harry. This is the first time I've seen you sober in weeks, and you're calling me selfish? You're drinking yourself to death and wasting all your money on booze. Don't act like I'm the only one at fault here!"

"Oh, please, don't be so dramatic, John. My drinking has nothing to do with anything."

John stood abruptly, leaning forward on his hands. "It has everything to do with everything! Do you know how worried Mum is? How worried I am?! Don't forget who it is that has to pick you up in the middle of the night after you've passed out in some alleyway. How many times have I taken you to the hospital in the past year, hm? Those medical bills add up, too. Just add it to the damn list of things I have to take care of. I suppose that's all my fault, too?"

Harry stood up, her fierce eyes brimming with tears.

"Shut up, John. Just shut up," she growled, moving to leave the room. John blocked the door.

"Now who doesn't want to face the truth? I may be selfish, but I will not take it from you, Harry."

Harry shoved past him and locked herself into the nearest room, the bathroom.

John slumped against the door frame, face in his hands and fingers gripping short blond locks. His entire body was tense.

Sherlock felt himself gripping the fabric of his trousers as he knelt on the floor. Electricity seemed to flow up and down his spine, an intense feeling of protectiveness taking hold. He gritted his teeth.

How dare she speak to John like that? Obviously he was doing what he could. How could she even think she was better than him in any way? Sherlock couldn't decide whether he really didn't want to meet Harry, or if he really did, just to give her hell.

Mrs. Watson's voice drifted through the flat, and John perked up and went to her. He knocked softly and entered, kneeling next to her bed.

"What's up, Mum?"

She smiled, her finger marking her page in the book in her lap. "I'm sick, John, not deaf."

John flushed. "Sorry… it's Christmas, we shouldn't be fighting…"

She quieted him with a hand on his shoulder. "You two have always fought," she said with a fond smile, "I'm not sure why you try to hide it from me now. I'm not weak, John."

John looked at his mother; pale skin, thin blond hair, and skinny – the image of sickness. But she was not a weak woman. John still remembered her as his protector when his father drank too much. She would protect him from her husband's cold words. Sometimes even his fists. When he finally left them, John couldn't recall ever being sad. His mother stayed strong, always a source of love and wisdom, so he grew up missing nothing.

Now the roles had reversed, and he felt it was his duty to be strong now. He didn't want her to see him struggling or fighting with Harry. He wasn't a child anymore.

John looked away and swallowed. "I know, Mum, I just… I don't want you to…" He bit his lip.

She squeezed his shoulder and smiled. "It's okay, John, I understand. I know your job - and Mr. Holmes - is important to you, that it's a part of you are, so don't listen to Harry. We're fine."

John closed his eyes, shaking his head. "But…"

"John, we're fine. I just want you to be happy."

Sherlock backed away from the edge, his body feeling numb.

"Lestrade, do you think that she… I mean, will she live?" He whispered, barely daring to utter the words.

Lestrade sighed and stepped over next to Sherlock, looking down at the scene. "Well, she was in regression until this year. Found a brain tumor. If she doesn't have surgery to get that removed she doesn't stand much of a chance. And let's just say those procedures aren't cheap. With the way things are now… this is her last Christmas."

Sherlock's breath hitched, and he cleared his throat. "Are we done here, Lestrade?" He muttered, slowly standing.

Lestrade glanced at his watch. "Yeah, I'd say so. Off we go, then."

The flat took to the air again, soaring across the city, the sky turning dark and colourful lights lit the way. This trip was not long, and they came to rest at another apartment complex, better quality than the last. They passed through into an average sized flat. It was cozy and warm, with a tree in the corner. Lights and garland adorned almost all the surfaces.

People crowded in, all of whom Sherlock recognized from Scotland Yard. Lestrade himself stood in the centre of the group, guests all listening to him tell some story.

"… So then when I said something about the bullet holes resembling the Big Dipper, he turned to look at me as if I'd gone mad. He said, 'what's that supposed to mean?' and honest to god, he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. I had to explain to Sherlock Holmes what the Big Dipper was. Who knew, right?"

The surrounding crowd laughed, and Lestrade chuckled, sipping a glass of eggnog. Other yarders began to join in, Donovan and Anderson, damn him, guffawing loudly at each new tale.

Sherlock turned to glare at his "guide" Lestrade, who failed to hide his grimace.

"Sorry, mate. I did invite you, though."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back.

Lestrade lifted his glass of eggnog to the ceiling. "A toast," he yelled to gain everyone's attention, "to Sherlock Holmes. Arrogant sod he may be, and hopelessly daft in some areas, but he's saved our asses on several occasions. We owe it to him, even though he probably wouldn't want our thanks," people gave noncommittal hums of agreement while Anderson and Donovan sneered, "I invited him, but… I don't know, we're just not 'good' enough. Convinced himself to hate us all, I guess. Anyway, Happy Christmas everyone, thanks for coming!"

There was cheering, and holiday music came on through old speakers. The babble and hubbub of holiday merriment blurred into dull roar. Sherlock stood from his place and went back to Lestrade.

"Charming. Are we done?"

To his credit, Lestrade looked mildly embarrassed as he checked his watch.

The flat spun up and away, tumbling through the night. They flew faster than before, as Lestrade frowned at his watch. Baker Street shot into view, and they soared down, the flat sliding back into place without so much as a squeak. No longer was there a pit in the floor, just solid wood. The furniture was back in place, unmoved as if nothing happened.

Lestrade gave Sherlock a tight smile. "Well, my time's up. Just… just remember this, Sherlock."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Remember what?"

"This. All of this. If you blow this off, delete this, whatever… Well. I guess you'll have to wait and see."

Sherlock frowned, glancing out at the pitch black night outside.

The bell chimed – midnight.

Sherlock looked back, and Lestrade vanished.

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Here it is! Thanks for the reviews, everyone. It really means a lot to me!**

**Warnings: unbeta'd, not Brit-picked, angsty  
**

**Disclaimer: Don't own BBC's Sherlock. ):  
**

* * *

Sherlock blinked in the lonely darkness of his flat, shivering at the sudden chill. His breaths formed soft puffs of vapor as the bells tolled away. At the tenth strike, a shadow blocked the moonlight filtering through the window.

Sherlock turned around, gooseflesh breaking out across his skin.

On the eleventh strike, Sherlock saw it – a dark, hooded figure looming at his window. It was not particularly tall, but it lacked definition, as if it was a shadow.

"So, you're it, hm? What is yet to come?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

At the stroke of midnight, the final chime, a pale hand rose from beneath black robes, motioning Sherlock closer with a curl of its index finger.

Sherlock swallowed and stepped forward until he stood directly in front of his visitor. The figure surged forward, grasping Sherlock's collar. Before he had the chance to register what occurred, Sherlock was thrown out the window.

Sherlock gasped, suddenly encased by frigid air, whipping past his face as he fell. He seemed to fall forever, but did not dare open his eyes to see when he'd land.

He did land, but not nearly as hard as he expected. He landed on a slope, and Sherlock opened his eyes. He slid to the end of a snowy rooftop and off onto the sidewalk. He was in front of his own agency building.

A cluster of two men and a woman stood by, muttering amongst themselves. Sherlock slid closer to hear.

"…he died instantly, I hear. Wonder what he's doing with everything he left behind," the woman whispered.

One of the men laughed, patting her roughly on the shoulder. "Left behind? That man had nothing to leave behind but his money and legacy. Have you met him? Utter sod. Nobody cares that he died."

The other man nodded with a solemn frown. "Soon people will even forget his name, and his money will never go anywhere. Bastard probably couldn't even be arsed to leave anything to charity."

The woman nodded, and the group wandered away down the street, where the hooded figure stood.

It pointed further down the road.

Sherlock stood and squinted down the street, but saw nothing of interest. A few people walking about, a cab driving down the street, Christmas lights flashing in shop windows… He looked to the figure again, but it hadn't moved, still pointing.

Focusing back to the street, Sherlock saw that the cab was picking up speed, heading straight towards him.

Pivoting on his heel, Sherlock ran.

He could hear the engine growling behind him, and could practically feel the heat from the grill on the backs of his knees. Grabbing a lamppost, Sherlock swung around the corner.

The street was full of pedestrians, and they all turned to look as Sherlock barreled down the sidewalk. They converged, grasping his arms and clutching his coat, pulling him back.

Tires screeched behind him, the growling engine coming for him once more. Sherlock shoved people away, ripping clawed fingers from his coat as they yelled and screamed in his face.

He dove into the alleyway, but the cab was right on his tail, and Sherlock propelled himself forward, his heart pounding in his ears. He threw himself around another corner, spotting the ladder to a fire escape hanging down. He lunged for it, hauling himself up and hoping with all his might that he would not slip on a rung.

He made it to the first landing, but didn't stop. He climbed and climbed until he reached the roof. Sherlock lay on top the creamy white building, his arms shaking from his efforts. His heart beat erratically in his chest as he gasped for air.

He escaped. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle for a few moments.

He took a second to locate where he was – St. Bart's – based on the surrounding buildings. Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and walked to the edge, peering down.

A large group of people had gathered. Some were screaming and pointing at something on the ground. Everyone was in a frenzy, scared and fascinated at the same time. Sirens wailed as an ambulance roared down the street, and cluster dispersed as paramedics pushed through.

All Sherlock could see was a bleeding man being carried away on a stretcher. Could this be the dead man those people had mentioned earlier? He shivered.

Sherlock shook his head, what did it matter? He made for the door and descended down the steps into the hospital. He stood in a long hallway, a single door at the end. He moved cautiously toward it, hearing nothing but the ringing in his own ears. The bitter smell of antiseptic made his stomach churn.

He opened the door and saw John.

John hunched over in his chair, elbows pressing into his knees and hands fisting handfuls of hair at the back of his head. He took quick, shuddering breaths. His whole body trembled. Pieces of his mobile phone were scattered across the floor.

"God, no… he can't be…" He croaked, curling up tighter. He choked on a sob.

Sherlock realized with alarm that John was crying. Strong, warm, loyal John Watson was crying.

His blood felt like ice in his veins.

A doctor came through the doors, taking tentative steps towards John.

"Mr. Watson?"

"Please," he whispered, not looking up at the woman, "please let there be some good news today."

The doctor looked down at her clasped hands, biting her lip.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Watson. She's fallen into a severe coma… her chances of surviving are – well. I'm sorry."

John choked on another sob, gasping for breath.

"No – God, no, please…" he moaned, tears landing at his feet.

Sherlock stared, blood rushing in his ears. Everything suddenly seemed surreal, the picture fuzzy around the edges and sounds muffled. Vaguely, Sherlock realized Harry had stumbled in, hurling slurred accusations at John, but all the words jumbled together and Sherlock couldn't make any sense of it.

All he could see was John, slumped over in defeat. Broken.

He turned his head and stared right at Sherlock, though his gaze passed right through him.

Sherlock's breathing stuttered to a halt. Those red-rimmed, watery blue eyes didn't belong to John anymore. Not the John he had grown to love. His eyes were vacant and cold. He was the shell of John Watson, the spark of joy gone forever.

The hooded spirit stood behind Sherlock, and he half turned to face it.

"Who was it? Who was the man that died, the one that jumped? Please," he asked, his face carefully impassive, though his voice shook.

The spirit moved back into the hallway, where a door stood at the other end. Paramedics were leaving the room just as they entered.

A body lay on the bed, covered by a pale blue sheet. Red seeped through the fabric near the body's head. A long black coat sticky with blood was stuffed into the garbage by the door, cut into pieces by the paramedics to remove it.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

"I get it, okay? I know," he breathed, backing away.

The spirit stepped to the head of the bed, pulling the sheet away. Strewn across the pillow were black curls clumped with blood.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Please," he hissed, "don't show me. I know, just stop!"

He backed through the door and ran. The floor fell away beneath him, suddenly grass and dirt, and he flung his arms out for anything to grasp. He caught a root hanging into the pit below. Sherlock looked up into the night sky, snow whipping through his hair. A gravestone stood before him, SHERLOCK HOLMES printed on it in plain lettering. The spirit stood next to it, robes billowing in the wind.

"If I change, will the outcomes be different?!" Sherlock cried, hands sliding on the icy root.

The spirit said nothing.

"I know what I've done wrong, and I will right them! Please, for John's sake, let me have another chance!"

The spirit's pale hand reached down to him, and Sherlock stretched up to grab it. The wind pulled the spirit's hood away, revealing a man with murky eyes and dark hair. He smirked, his beady eyes dancing with glee. He jerked his hand back, and a polished shoe kicked Sherlock square in the jaw.

"Whoops! Sorry, I'm sooo changeable!"

Sherlock fell into the abyss.

* * *

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	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Merry Christmas everyone! This update is a little late, I apologize... but it is here. Only one or two more chapters after this, so thank you to all of you who have followed this from the start! **

**Warnings: do I need to warn you about fluff?  
**

**Disclaimer: Don't own BBC's Sherlock  
**

**Enjoy.  
**

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes. He jumped, limbs flailing, rolling right off the sofa to the floor. Sunlight streamed through the window, lighting up the perfect normalcy of his flat.

He was alive.

His coat was twisted around his torso, trousers and shirt dreadfully wrinkled. Sherlock dove into his pockets, pulling out his mobile. The display read six past seven in the morning. The twenty fifth of December.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and over to the window. He threw it open, cold air rushing in, with a grin on his face.

"I haven't missed it!" he cried, leaning out to peer down at the sidewalk. A boy glanced over his shoulder at him, increasing his speed as he left.

"Happy Christmas!" Sherlock shouted after him, but the boy didn't turn around. Sherlock chuckled. He hadn't been this happy since the last triple homicide case with the pinky-stealing serial killer! John came up with a ridiculous name for the case; something like _The Pinky Promise Killer_ or _The Case of the Pinky Promise_…

Sherlock froze. John.

While everything appeared to return to normal, Sherlock never assumed. He typed out a quick text to John.

_Need your case notes. Urgent. SH_

After a couple of minutes with no response, Sherlock sighed. He tapped out another message.

_And Happy Christmas. Notes? SH_

No more than a minute later, Sherlock's phone buzzed.

_Merry Christmas! My notes? Do you ever take a break? JW_

Sherlock smiled.

_No. Bring them by the flat. _

Sherlock's thumb hovered over the send key.

_Thank you. SH_

He added, sending the message off.

Sherlock estimated it would take John about thirty minutes to reach his flat if he left within the next ten minutes, which was ample time to take a shower. He went for the bathroom, throwing his coat on the sofa as he left.

Sherlock peeled his clothes off quickly, eager to stand under the hot water and _think_. It sputtered and sprayed, steam gathering in the room, and Sherlock's muscles began to relax.

He wasn't sure how to classify the experience, though after a moments debate, decided a very vivid dream was the best description. He had no doubt that what he saw for the future would come to be if he did not make changes – they really were the only logical outcomes.

Outcomes he managed to completely overlook.

Sherlock knew that he could not change who he was or what he did, but for John… For John, he would do his best to be, well… good.

Turning off the water, Sherlock wrapped a towel around his waist and dashed across the hall into his room. He pulled on a suitable pair of trousers and buttoned up his favourite purple shirt, then went back to the sitting room to wait.

As he approached, Sherlock heard sounds from the kitchen. It appeared he would not need to wait at all. John bustled about making tea, two mugs set out on the counter. The notebook Sherlock asked for lay on the surprisingly clean table, right next to a gift bag bursting with red and green tissue.

"Tea, Sherlock?" John asked with a grin.

Sherlock jumped, realizing he was staring. He nodded minutely.

John set the mugs on the table and sat down, Sherlock doing the same.

"I got you a present," John stated into his cup, nodding to the bag. Sherlock smiled indulgently.

"Yes, I see that. I have something for you as well, though it will have to wait until tomorrow."

John nearly choked on his tea.

"You got me something for Christmas?" John leaned closer, searching Sherlock's face for any signs of illness.

Sherlock frowned. "Is it not customary to give a gift in return after receiving something?"

"Well, yes, but – wait, how did you know that I – "

"John." Sherlock deadpanned.

"Oh, right, deduced it. Sherlock bloody Holmes. Hope you haven't deduced what it is as well." John looked pointedly at Sherlock, then the bag. Sherlock pulled it closer.

"I have an idea…" Sherlock smirked, reaching inside.

Sherlock pulled out the purple scarf he saw John purchasing in the dream. It really was quite nice, soft and warm.

"There's something else, too," John spoke quickly, as if he almost didn't want to say it. He licked his lips nervously.

Sherlock fished around inside the tissue paper and grasped something firm and rectangular. He pulled it out, seeing a worn leather cover. A journal? He opened it to the first page, and at the top it read _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._

"It's kind of stupid, really. I kept all the case files you give back to me for this. I just think that what you do is so fascinating; I can't help but write about it. And, if you'd let me, I'd like to post it as a blog, so more people can see. It might bring in more clients!"

Sherlock flipped through the pages, face remaining blank. He recognized every case, though a few of the names were quite strange. Ah, yes! It was called _The Pinky Promise Fiasco_! When Sherlock still hadn't said anything, John rambled on.

"I guess it's not totally selfless. It helps me, you could say. I can't really describe it, but just writing about your adventures makes me feel like I'm a part of it, and I feel alive again, I guess. Maybe it's – I'm sorry, it's horrible, I shouldn't have – "

John reached out to take the journal back, but Sherlock held it to his chest.

"It's perfect, John. Thank you." Sherlock felt a ridiculous smile tugging at his lips, and for once, he let it.

John slowly smiled back, albeit a bit nervously. His hand lowered onto Sherlock's forearm and lingered.

"You're welcome," he whispered, tongue peeking out to wet his lips.

In those few moments of bated breaths and hesitant glances, Sherlock wanted to kiss John Watson quite badly. He leaned forward, eyelids fluttering closed…

John's hand left his arm, and his chair squeaked as he stood. He smiled.

"Well, I'm glad you like it. There are the notes, so I'd better be off. Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed, shoulders slumped.

"And you, John."

He heard the door shut, and John's footsteps echo down the stairs. Damn.

His eyes landed on John's notes, and he snatched them up. He flipped to the last occupied page and found exactly what he was looking for. It wasn't much of a Christmas present, but on such short notice, he figured it would do. Besides, John would appreciate it all the same.

Sherlock googled the address and left the flat. He hailed a cab, watching it suspiciously as it rolled to a stop next to him.

It took about ten minutes to reach his destination, and Sherlock stepped out in front of a small, middle class condo building. He waited thirty seconds after ringing the bell before a young blond woman answered.

"Can I help you?" She asked, stooping down to brush a young boy behind her.

Sherlock did his best to put on a polite smile, but judging by her raised eyebrow, it came out more as a grimace. He dropped the attempt.

"I apologize for the timing, Miss Morstan, but I believe time is of the essence if you want to catch your uncle before he leaves the country with your money."

She looked baffled for a few moments before it suddenly clicked.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock nodded.

She smiled, pushing the boy – her son, Sherlock deduced – further into the house.

"Come in, I've just put on the kettle!"

Sherlock followed her into a simple, yet cozy kitchen. She fetched a mug from the cupboard. She opened her mouth, but Sherlock beat her to it.

"Two sugars, please."

She nodded, dropping in two and handing it to him.

"So, my uncle?" She asked, stirring her own cup.

Sherlock took a sip, rolling his eyes.

"Obviously."

* * *

Six o'clock found Sherlock sprinting through the backstreets of London, armed gang members hot on his heels. It turned out Mary Morstan's uncle owed large sums of money to very unsavory people.

Sherlock ducked into an alcove and sent a quick text, summoning John to his location with a request to bring his gun. It was a new request, though Sherlock had no doubt that John would do as he asked.

Tucked into the shadows, Sherlock watched the thugs run past him. He stepped out and ran in the opposite direction, but missed the man standing guard at the end of the alley. The man gave a shout, and Sherlock barreled past him onto the sidewalk.

The man was gaining on him as Sherlock whipped around a corner, and suddenly his feet were no longer underneath him. Sherlock's shoulder made contact with the patch of ice, sending shooting pain through his entire arm. He slid until he hit the brick wall opposite him.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, but it was too late. The thug grabbed him by the collar and pinned him to the wall.

"Enough," he grunted, pulling a revolver from his belt.

"Don't even think about it," another voice growled from behind him.

The thug turned to look, and Sherlock used the distraction to hit him hard in the stomach. But the man was quick, grabbing Sherlock's wrist firmly and twisting until his face pressed against the grimy brick.

Sherlock heard the click of a safety.

"Drop it."

The thug's grip loosened as he hesitated, and that's all Sherlock needed. He elbowed the man in the jaw, and he stumbled back into John, who brought the butt of his gun sharply across his head. He crumpled to the floor.

John switched his safety on and tucked it into the back of his pants.

"So," John asked with a twist of his lips, "who's that?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"A thug."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'd gathered that much, thank you. I mean, why was he trying to kill you?"

"Isn't everybody?" Sherlock asked, brow arched.

There was a moment of silence before John burst out into giggles. Sherlock frowned. "Jo – "

"No, no, it's true! It's just," John struggled to contain himself, "look at us! Pfft – " He dissolved into another fit of giggles.

Sherlock was confused, but felt himself smiling anyway, chuckling a bit as well. John gained control of himself slowly, still grinning.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked.

John blinked, as if just realizing it.

"Starving."

Sherlock took a few steps to leave, but John called him back.

"What do we do with him?" John asked, nudging the thug with his foot.

Sherlock peered into the nearest dumpster, fishing out a roll of duct tape. He held it up for John to see, who nearly started giggling again.

They secured the man to the dumpster, and Sherlock sent a quick text to Lestrade with the man's location. John followed Sherlock on the sidewalk, hurrying to keep pace.

"So, where are we going?"

Sherlock tucked his phone back in his pocket.

"A former client owns a restaurant a couple minutes away, and he owes me a favour. I hear it's not bad."

John grinned.

"Excellent."

The pair arrived at Angelo's just after seven, and the man ushered them inside, directing them to a table near the window.

"So good to see you again, Sherlock!" He boomed, slapping Sherlock on the back. "And you must be his date!" He said, grinning at John.

John's mind went blank.

"John Watson," Sherlock introduced him instead, and Angelo nodded.

"Great man, this one. Got me off of a murder charge!" He whispered to John, who smiled nervously and nodded.

Angelo beamed, slapping John on the back. He winced.

"Anything on the menu, free of charge! I'll go get a candle, 's more romantic that way."

John opened his mouth to say something, but he had already disappeared into the kitchen. John sighed. What did he get himself into?

Sherlock didn't look bothered at all, in fact, he looked quite content.

"I know I said I'd wait until tomorrow, but I suppose I can give this to you now," Sherlock spoke abruptly, pulling out a few folded papers from inside his coat, along with John's case notebook.

John unfolded the papers, eyes scanning Sherlock's familiar scrawl as he solved the case of a woman's missing inheritance, a Miss Mary –

He stared up at Sherlock, who was watching the flame flicker on the newly placed candle, his fingers tapping out random rhythms on the table.

"Sherlock, this is…"

"I know it's not much, John, but I knew it was important to you, so…" Sherlock trailed off, still gazing into the candle.

John smiled softly, reaching out to touch Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock looked up sharply, breath hitched. Pink tinted John's cheeks.

"It's more than that, Sherlock. Thank you," John whispered with such sincerity that Sherlock smiled back. John wet his lips and his eyes darted away.

"About what I said before, Sherlock, I'm sorry. It wasn't true, I shouldn't have said that."

Sherlock shook his head, his thumb grazing the inside of John's wrist to gain his focus.

"No, John, you were absolutely true. I just needed a little push to see it." John was bemused, but Sherlock gave a small smile. With a burst of courage, he interlaced his fingers with John's.

John gawked, staring at their hands, then Sherlock. Sherlock stared at the table.

"I have a confession to make, John."

John gulped, nodding, before realizing Sherlock couldn't really see the motion.

"I think… I think you're going to have to change the title of that journal you gave me. Before you post it as a blog, I mean." Sherlock risked glancing up at John, who looked completely baffled.

"I'm promoting you, John," Sherlock tried, looking him square in the eye.

"To – to what?" John squeaked, still very confused.

Sherlock frowned. "Everything," he said, the _obviously_ left unsaid.

The fog of confusion remained. Sherlock sighed.

"I want you to accompany me on all of my cases, John. You will be with me every step of the way, so you are to include yourself in your blog title, do you understand?"

John could only nod slowly before Sherlock barreled on.

"Any profits I make are yours as well. Everything I have is yours, John."

John stared with wide eyes at his friend. This was… well. This was one of the best days of his life.

"You are everything, John. I need you to know that." Sherlock's eyes bored into his, pleading with him to understand something without saying it.

"Sherlock… God, I don't know what to say. Thank you, for everything, this is amazing. I just… you need to be perfectly clear with me, Sherlock, or I'm going to botch this up. I can't assume anything with you, so please, what are you trying to say?"

John felt like he was going to burst. He was so nervous and excited and terrified at the same time, and it all was because of this one man before him. This man, who he loved so very much, who was brilliant, witty, and adventure, would decide John's future. John's whole body vibrated with energy.

Sherlock's tongue felt like chalk as he tried to find the right words to express what he wanted.

"John, I – will you? I want…" Sherlock squeezed John's hand, meeting his eyes. He swallowed nervously.

"John, will you be my blogger? Just mine?"

Sherlock's silver eyes danced over John's face as he leaned in. John held his breath, moving closer, his eyes sliding closed. He felt Sherlock's warm breath ghost over his lips, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. Then Sherlock's lips were on his, soft and warm and demanding. John breathed out through his nose as Sherlock took his bottom lip between his own, nibbling softly. He slid his hand up to Sherlock's elbow, squeezing. Sherlock's now free hand moved up to John's neck, brushing his thumb against the sensitive skin below his ear. John shivered. Just as Sherlock's tongue brushed John's lips, John pulled away for air.

John blushed furiously, pink tinting the tips of his ears, lips red and swollen slightly. Sherlock looked much the same, the pink dusted across his high cheekbones and extending down the back of his neck.

"I take it that you accept my terms, John?" Sherlock whispered hoarsely, pulse racing.

John smirked.

"Obviously."

* * *

**Review? (:  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Just a little prelude before... dun dun dun DUN! The NEW YEAR'S SPECIAL! Actually, it'll be the epilogue, but it will be New Year's themed, so watch out for that one! Again, thank you to those of you that have reviewed, followed, and favourited this story! It really means a lot to me. (: **

**Warnings: Random and a bit OOC. Fluff.  
**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock. Or Twister.  
**

* * *

Sherlock's appearance at the Scotland Yard Christmas party was totally unexpected. As Sherlock planned, of course. After dropping John off at his flat, he headed straight to Lestrade's.

Laughter echoed down the halls, Lestrade's voice breaking through the noise as he opened the door.

"…So then when I said something about the bullet holes resembling the Big Dipper, he-"

"Evening, Lestrade."

Lestrade stared in shock, and the rest of the party fell silent. Lestrade blinked, and a grin broke across his face.

"Sherlock! Glad you could make it!" Lestrade rushed over, clapping Sherlock on the back.

Sherlock's mouth twitched nervously, and Lestrade looked around at his guests. He cleared his throat.

"Actually, we were just about to have a toast," he said pointedly, pushing a glass of champagne into Sherlock's hand.

"To the fine people of Scotland Yard," Lestrade cheered, raising his glass. He looked to Sherlock with a small smile, "and Sherlock Holmes, our greatest ally. Cheers!"

The Yarders cheered and clinked glasses, the merriment continuing as if nothing had happened. Lestrade shrugged and clinked his glass with Sherlock's before taking a mighty gulp. He nodded for Sherlock to do the same. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock took a sip.

Sherlock intended to have a single glass of champagne and leave; however, it seemed Lestrade had other ideas. Sherlock never found himself without a full glass, and it wasn't long before he felt a bit tipsy.

He ended up playing a drunken game of Twister, and went head to head with Lestrade on one of those dancing video games. Who knew Lestrade had rhythm? Or perhaps he wasn't quite as drunk as he was…?

Either way, Sherlock was bundled into a cab after an intense game of charades where he passed out on the floor, and had several inebriated Yarders shouting out guesses of _"snake!"_ or "_worm!". _

Though he would vehemently deny it if asked, Sherlock felt that maybe having a few friends wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

Sherlock awoke the next morning in agony. The sun pouring through his windows burned his eyes. His stomach lurched as he twisted to stand, head pounding. God, that awful ringing-!

His phone.

He lunged for the device as it nearly vibrated right off his nightstand.

"Hullo?" Sherlock's tongue felt like chalk.

"Sherlock, it's John. Are you coming in to work today? I tried to text, but you never answered," John's concerned voice was loud coming through the speaker, and Sherlock groaned.

"Yes, 'm comin', juss… hnng. Half 'n hour."

"Sherlock, bloody hell, you sound awful! Is everything all right?"

Sherlock moaned in what he hoped was a reassuring way before hanging up. He dragged himself out of bed and into the shower.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

John couldn't help but giggle when his friend – _boyfriend? Lover? Partner?_ – stumbled into his office. While usually immaculately dressed, today, Sherlock's shirt was buttoned unevenly and his trousers were wrinkled. His grey eyes were bloodshot.

"Lestrade's party," Sherlock explained, sinking down into his chair, head falling onto the desk.

John grinned, seating himself on the desk. He set a warm cup of tea and a packet of paracetamol next to Sherlock. After a second's hesitation, John combed his fingers through dark curls. His thumb massaged Sherlock's temple, and the detective sighed.

"I figured as much, though I must say, I'm a bit surprised. Never took you to be the social drinking type," John whispered, fingers rubbing Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock snorted. "I'm kidding, Sherlock. I'll go take care of the clients, hm?"

John slid off the desk, his hand leaving Sherlock's head. At Sherlock's petulant groan, John smiled smugly. Sherlock took notice to the tea and pain killers, and his stomach fluttered with warmth.

"John," he whispered as John reached the door. John paused, looking expectantly at Sherlock.

"What would I do without you?" Sherlock's voice was light, and he smiled the best he could for a man in pain.

John pursed his lips, glancing to the floor, then back to Sherlock. He shrugged.

"Let's not find out," John breathed, leaving the office with a smile.


	8. A Sherlockian New Year

**A/N: Here it is. The final chapter! Thank you all so, so much for taking the time to read this! It's been amazing to see all the reviews, favourites, and follows... seriously. You guys are great! **

**Warnings: Utter JohnLock fluff.  
**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.  
**

* * *

It had been nearly a year since 'the Incident,' and Sherlock was true to his word when he said that everything he had was John's as well. The number of clients skyrocketed as a result of John's blog, despite all of its 'frivolous details' and 'blatant omissions of important facts and deductions.'

Business at the agency boomed, and Sherlock claimed he had little use for the extra profit. John suspected that was merely for his benefit, as he found pamphlets for top-notch rehab institutions on his desk, as well as business cards for prestigious cancer research and treatment facilities. Clearly, Sherlock tried to accommodate his pride while giving him a push in what he deemed the 'right direction.'

As much as John hated asking others for financial help, he supposed that, in this instance, it was not the case. John certainly earned at _least_ half the profits – running after Sherlock at all times of the night, wrestling trained killers, rummaging through dumpsters on a regular basis… Not that he was complaining.

Not at all. In fact, John had never felt so alive.

Therefore, John decided, if he wanted to spend the money he rightfully earned to help his family; he was going to damn well do it.

It took a while to get Harry on board. It was only after the collapse of her latest relationship and the loss of her job that she finally caved to see help. With his mother in a treatment centre on the edge of the city, and Harry in Scotland for rehab, John was left alone in his worn out flat.

It was only _logical_, then, that John should move in to Baker Street, Sherlock pointed out. John found he could not argue. Splitting the rent at one place was thriftier than each of them paying separate bills. Besides, their relationship was growing steadily stronger, and John had no qualms with seeing his partner every day.

And so it was. The transition was surprisingly natural for the both of them. John was less than thrilled about the body parts in the fridge the first few times, but he was getting used to it. It was all fine, as long as Sherlock kept experiments out of the kettle and away from their food supply.

As the holiday season neared, more and more clients piled up at the doors of the agency, and Sherlock made the abrupt decision to close it.

John was, needlessly to say, utterly shocked. He followed Sherlock around as he locked all the doors for the last time, rooms barren and strange. He spluttered about how the work was the most important thing to Sherlock, how brilliant he was at it, and Sherlock promptly shut him up with a finger to his lips.

John swallowed harshly under the unrelenting pressure of Sherlock's finger, as the detective moved closer.

"There are more important things than the work, John," he whispered, silver eyes burning. John's heart fluttered, but the disbelief and panic still gnawed at him.

Seeing John's confusion, Sherlock continued. "I never said I was giving up on the work, John, I'm merely changing how I do it. Running a business like this requires too many legal obligations on cases, as does being a private detective. I've invented my own job title. I'm a consulting detective. I'm still bound to the law, but it is not breathing down my neck – except Mycroft, perhaps. We're free to investigate as we please."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did, John positively beamed.

"Quite clever, Mr. Holmes," John whispered huskily, eyes closing and pulling Sherlock in by his coat.

Sherlock smirked, his hands resting on John's waist. "Why, thank you, Mr. Watson," he murmured against John's lips, before sealing them together.

* * *

It was eleven at night on New Year's Eve, and John sat on the sofa, tea in hand, watching telly. He had returned from surgery to find the flat empty – odd, he didn't remember Sherlock being on any cases – but shrugged and settled in to watch the Doctor Who marathon.

Not twenty minutes later, John's phone chimed with a message from Sherlock.

_Waterloo Bridge. Urgent. SH_

John leapt over the back of the sofa, pulling on his coat and shuffling into his shoes without a second thought.

"Don't wait up, Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled as he burst through the front door. He waved down a cab and dove in.

"Waterloo Bridge, quickly please!"

They wound through London quickly, though not as fast as John would have liked. As soon as the cab stopped, John was stumbling out, throwing cash towards the driver. "Keep the change!"

John spotted a tall figure in a long coat staring out over the Thames, and he ran towards him, at Sherlock's side in seconds.

"Sherlock! What is it? What's happened?" John panted, leaning against the railing to catch his breath. His eyes were alert and scanning the crowds for anything suspicious.

Sherlock chuckled, and John's eyes snapped back to him, noticing suddenly that he looked perfectly unharmed and relaxed.

"You're early," Sherlock said, checking the time on his phone.

John glared, crossing his arms over his chest. "You said it was urgent," he retorted.

"It is," Sherlock whispered, looking anywhere but at John. Sherlock bit his lip, and John realized that Sherlock's hand trembled as he tucked his phone back in his pocket.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John was tense again, but Sherlock set his hand gently on John's shoulder.

"I've heard many rumours about being with someone you love on New Year's Eve. I want to know your opinion," Sherlock's face was blank, but his eyes danced with something John couldn't place.

John's breath caught. Sherlock had never outright told John he loved him. He had his ways of expressing it, certainly, through different phrases and actions, but John couldn't recall a time Sherlock had used the word _love_ to describe what he felt about anything.

"W-well, it's said that if you kiss someone you, um, care about just as midnight hits, you'll be with that person forever. Or, uh, something like that," John searched Sherlock's face for a flicker of _something_, but Sherlock was carefully avoiding his gaze.

Sherlock remained silent for a moment before meeting John's eyes. He looked almost sheepish.

"Make no mistake, John. What I feel for you is, undoubtedly, love," he whispered. His eyes shifted over the water again, towards the London Eye, where a large crowd had gathered for the countdown and fireworks.

"FIVE!"

Sherlock turned back to John, eyes hardened with resolve as he stepped in close, arms winding around John's waist, pulling.

"FOUR!"

John's hands settled on Sherlock's shoulders, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest, feeling Sherlock's doing the same through his shirt.

"THREE!"

Sherlock's arm slid up from his waist to intertwine his right hand with John's left, bringing it to rest at their sides, fingers still tangled together.

"TWO!"

John's eyes fluttered shut, fingers winding themselves into dark curls at the base of Sherlock's head.

"ONE!"

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's, the arm around his waist tugging John closer. His palm flattened on John's lower back, sliding up along his spine, and John shivered. Sherlock sucked on his lower lip, teeth grazing the skin, until John allowed Sherlock in, tongue tracing his lips and teeth.

John groaned, and Sherlock's hand untangled with his for a moment before coming back, sliding something warm and heavy onto John's ring finger. John gasped and pulled away.

"Sherlock?" John's eyes searched Sherlock's. The sounds of the fireworks and crowds were muted as John quivered with hope.

Sherlock's face was unreadable as he took John's hand in both of his own, raising it to rest over his heart. He dropped to one knee.

"John Watson, will you marry me?" Sherlock's voice was pure and vulnerable, staring imploringly into John's eyes. He kissed the thin silver band around John's finger, thumbs massaging his palm.

John's breath hitched, and he pulled his hands away from Sherlock, whose face fell dramatically, radiating hurt. His eyes fell to the ground. "H-have I misread-"

John grasped his wrists and yanked Sherlock to his feet, immediately pulling him into his arms.

"Yes. God, yes!" John spoke directly into his ear, eyelashes tickling his cheek. Sherlock blinked, then sighed, muscles losing their tension as he held John close. His smile was infectious, as he felt John's lips curve up against his jaw. John shook with excited laughter, and Sherlock soon joined in.

At the start of this New Year, with the fireworks and cheering, and John in his arms, Sherlock had no doubt that this would be the best year yet.

* * *

**Have a very happy New Year, everyone! Thank you again. (: **

**~Idiot-The-Great  
**


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